Roots of Outrage
‘Does Sarie wait faithfully for Ernest?’ Miss Rousseau demanded.
‘Not only that, she … They have to … well, they get married, Miss Rousseau.’
‘Oh, what fun,’ Miss Rousseau sparkled. (Fun?! That’s pure sex talk!) She put her heavenly hand on his arm impulsively. ‘Luke, I’ve been thinking – these journals, I really think your family should make a copy, in case they get destroyed in a fire or something. And I would love a copy for myself. Now, I’ve got a very good typewriter. Would you ask your father if he minds if I type them up? It’s quiet in the hostel while the girls are doing their prep, and in the holidays I’ll have the whole place to myself.’
Luke said casually to his father, trying not to blush: ‘Miss Rousseau thinks those journals are so valuable we should have them typed up in case they’re ever lost, and she’s offered to do so but she hasn’t got a decent typewriter and that girls’ hostel is so noisy, she says, and I thought maybe she could come here and use Mother’s typewriter –’
‘Well, that’s kind of her. But I’m not sure, son – she may make a copy and I don’t like the idea of that, I want to publish them one day –’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t make a copy, Father!’
It was his mother who swung it. ‘Well, I think it’s a very good idea, darling. It’s an opportunity to get her evaluation of them. Tell her to come around whenever she has time, Luke. I won’t disturb her.’
That afternoon Luke and Justin fetched the horses and as they casually cantered past the hostel Luke just happened to spy Miss Rousseau sitting on the verandah, marking books. He dismounted.
‘Miss Rousseau, my father is very grateful for your offer to type up the journals, and of course you may make a copy for yourself, but could you possibly come to our house to do it because he doesn’t want copies lying around because they’re so personal?’
‘But of course,’ Miss Rousseau said earnestly.
Oh joy! ‘And,’ he blurted on, ‘my mother suggests you come on the afternoons she plays golf so she doesn’t disturb you. That’s Mondays and Wednesdays, Miss Rousseau.’ (The days his sister had hockey practice). ‘And,’ he blurted on, ‘if you’d like to have a swim, bring your costume …’
‘Well, I’ll be there!’
He galloped all the way home. He’d done it! He’d contrived to get Miss Rousseau alone! He just had to lock himself in his bedroom again and get rid of his hard-on.
Oooh, the agony of waiting for Monday … That Saturday he played a suicidal rugby match, to roars of applause from the grandstand, where Miss Rousseau sat. ‘Brilliant game, Luke.’ Brilliant … ? In his sound senses he tried to hammer it into himself that nothing would happen on Monday, but with all these erections it was possible to imagine anything. The sheer eroticism of having Miss Rousseau alone in the house! Would she have a swim? Would they have tea together? Damn right they would! Would she sometimes ask him to help her decipher his great great grandfather’s handwriting? Would she … walk around the garden with him? Would she bring her swimming costume? Would it be a bikini? Please let it be a bikini …!
And it surpassed his wildest dreams. Not only did they have tea together, not only did she want to see the garden, not only did she call him to decipher his great great grandfather’s handwriting sometimes … but she did bring her swimming costume! And it was a bikini! Oh, the bliss of having tea with Miss Rousseau, just the two of them, like two adults – he had dredged up a stockpile of tricky historical points to talk about. Oh, the bliss of bending over the journals beside her (the sweet scent of her) deciphering his great grandfather’s handwriting. And Oooooh Miss Rousseau in her bikini… those lovely long legs, those ooooh-so-rounded hips and oh those tits … But how was he going to hide this hard-on?! And after she packed up the typing at five o’clock and drove off back to the hostel in her old Chevrolet he stood in the toilet thinking, This is where she pulled her panties down. This is where she placed her beautiful bare bum … And he just wanted to smother the seat in kisses.
It surpassed his wildest dreams when, after her fourth visit, his mother announced: ‘That nice Miss Rousseau telephoned today and asked if she could possibly hire one of the horses during the school holidays – she’s a keen horsewoman. Of course I said she could ride them any time free, but she asked if you would go with her the first time, until she’s familiar with her mount.’
Would he go with her… ? ‘Okay, Mother.’
‘Please don’t use those dreadful Americanisms, son. And, she had the highest praise for you. “Quite a remarkable historian”, she said. And that you’ll go a long way in life.’
Quite a remarkable historian?! Well she ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Go a long way? He would go all the way to the ends of the earth on his hands and knees over broken glass for Miss Rousseau …
It seemed an eternity waiting for the mid-year school holidays. And then Miss Rousseau surpassed his wildest wild dreams again. When they dismounted at the reservoir outside town and sat down under the trees, she gave him her creamy smile and said: ‘I think that you can stop calling me Miss Rousseau, Luke. Lisa will do fine when we’re alone. After all, we are partners in crime.’
Lisa! When we’re alone! Partners in crime?
‘What crime, Miss Rousseau?’
‘Lisa.’
Oh … ‘Lisa.’ It was the most wonderful name in the world.
She smiled. ‘Fraud? Copyright contravention? Your father did not give me permission to make a copy of those journals, did he?’
Luke was mortified. Blushing. ‘How do you know?’
‘When I phoned your mother about riding she thanked me for the typing and apologised that your father wouldn’t allow a copy to be made because he wants to publish them one day.’ She smiled. ‘Why did you lie to me, Luke?’
He swallowed. ‘Because … you’re a historian, and … and you deserve it.’
She grinned. ‘Why do I deserve it, Luke?’
‘Because you’re –’ (he wanted to blurt ‘the most beautiful’) ‘– the best teacher I’ve ever had.’
‘An apple for the teacher?’
‘No, Miss Rousseau.’ He wished the earth would open.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘And Lisa, please.’
‘No, not an apple for the teacher. Lisa.’
She smiled. ‘The teacher? I’m only twenty-one, you know, Luke. Only four years older than you.’
‘Yes, I know …’ Luke croaked. ‘Lisa,’ he added.
‘And I’m not really a teacher, you know. I only got my B.A. last year, I haven’t done my teaching diploma yet.’ She paused. ‘And d’you know what?’
‘What?’ he croaked. ‘Lisa,’ he added.
‘I’ve decided I don’t want to teach kids, Luke. Next year I’m going back to university to do my M.A. And then a doctorate. I want to teach at university level – teaching minds like yours.’
Minds like his?! Not kids … !
‘You’ve no idea how bored I’ve been in this town, Luke.’
Goddesses get bored? ‘Really?’
‘Really. In fact …’ She paused, then grinned at him. ‘Can you keep a secret, Luke?’
A secret from Miss Rousseau?!
‘Promise,’ he said. ‘Lisa.’
‘In fact –’ she smiled her mischievous creamy smile – ‘the only stimulating thing that’s happened to me this year has been you and those journals.’ Miss Rousseau looked at him with a twinkle in her eye: ‘You and your riding past the hostel every Friday. To impress me? And undressing me with your eyes in the classroom. And – ’ her smile widened – ‘your monstrous erections in the swimming pool.’
Luke didn’t know whether he wanted to lunge at her or the earth to swallow him up. Monstrous erections? His heart was pounding and he was blushing furiously and he couldn’t think of anything to say except: ‘I’m sorry.’
She grinned widely. ‘Oh don’t be sorry – it’s very pleasing.’
Pleasing?! That could only mean one thing! Oh God he didn’t know what he dare do!
Miss Rousseau smiled. ‘Are you a virgin, Luke?’
He couldn’t believe this was happening. All beyond imagination. He blushed. ‘Yes …
She smiled. ‘Well, Luke? I seem to have taught you all the history you need. What shall we do about what you don’t know?’
Luke’s heart was hammering, his ears were ringing, his face on fire, his stomach was faint, his legs trembled. ‘I – I don’t know, Miss Rousseau.’
‘Lisa.’ Miss Rousseau smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘let’s think … Now, if I were seventeen, and not your so-called teacher, what would you do now, Luke?’
Luke looked at her with utter, confused adoration. He swallowed and whispered hoarsely: ‘I’d kiss you.’
‘Very good, Luke. So, you may kiss me, you know how to do that, I’m sure.’
He stared, then he lunged at her. He seized her and plunged his gasping mouth onto hers so their teeth clashed, and she laughed in her throat and toppled over, and he scrambled frantically on top of her, and he ejaculated. In one frantic surging the world buzzed into a blurry flame that promptly crescendoed into the most marvellous feeling in the world, that exploded into a frenetic thrusting towards the source of all joy through jodhpurs and all. Luke Mahoney pounded on top of Lisa Rousseau, exploding, and she held him tignt, grinning up to the sky.
When he finally went limp, gasping, on top of her, his mind in a whirl, she smiled. ‘There … Now we can really talk about this like adults.’ She took a handful of his hair and lifted his suffused face. ‘Tonight, instead of going to the cinema, or wherever, why don’t you come to see me? The hostel’s empty.’
5
Those school holidays were wonderful. Wonderful, marvellous, divine, delicious, heavenly, breathtaking, walking-on-air – a head-over-heels, laughing-out-loud, do-backward-somersaults love affair, a secret so delicious he wanted to bellow it to the world.
Umtata was quiet, the school silent, the sunshine golden, the birds atwitter, the bees buzzing. And the big girl’s hostel was empty, except for the beautiful, long-legged, big-busted, sparkly-eyed, wonderful Lisa Rousseau. Every day they went galloping over the hills to the reservoir to make love on a blanket. Twice a week she came to the house to type up the journals (‘No, Luke – your mother may come home …’), every night he climbed out of his bedroom window and hurried across town to the hostel, let himself in the kitchen door and bounded up the stairs – and there was Lisa Rousseau, a grin all over her lovely face, and he seized her in his trembling arms. And, oh God, the wonderful feel of her against him, her strong-soft athletic body, her breasts crushed against his heaving schoolboy chest, her belly and loins crushed against him, his hands frantically sliding over her, feeling, feeling, feeling her. Then she swept her nightdress over her head, and the sight of her nakedness, each night, took his breath away. Then she tumbled onto her narrow bed, a grin of fun all over her lovely face. ‘The first one’s for you; the second one’s for me …’
So it went every night, those school holidays. The first one was over in minutes, two or three minutes of frantic thrusting, then a searing explosion of cascading joy. And Lisa Rousseau lay there, legs wide, smiling, receiving this explosive accolade, then, when that bit of heavenly nonsense was over, it was her turn. Miss Lisa Rousseau toppled him onto his back, and he lay there, exhausted, happy, wildly in love, and she began her magic. She slithered down to his loins and she grinned at him up his belly, her long hair awry and her big eyes twinkling, then she slowly, so slowly, lowered her head and, oh, the wonderful feel of her warm wet mouth, her teeth playfully nibbling, her full lips sucking, her warm pink tongue slithering, her eyes sparkling with the sheer fun of it all, and when she had done her magic she climbed joyfully on top of him, for her turn.
At the end of the second wonderful week Luke had a brilliant idea: his father owned a fishing camp down on the Wild Coast, sixty miles away: how marvellous to have the last week of the holidays there with Lisa all to himself, out in the wide open, sleeping together all night long, swimming naked in the crashing surf, romping together in the languid lagoon, walking along the wild deserted beach together like real lovers … It would be just like a real honeymoon. Lisa thought it a wonderful idea provided his parents didn’t know about her being there. ‘And provided we have some intellectual activity – I, my friend, am going to ensure you get an A for history …’
Luke said to his father: ‘Can I take one of the horses down to the camp? Do some fishing before I start work on my final exams?’
‘Can I come too?’ Jill cried.
‘No girls,’ Luke said firmly.
‘But what about that nice Miss Rousseau?’ Mrs Mahoney said. ‘She’ll be disappointed if you don’t go riding with her.’
‘Oh, she’s going off somewhere for a week to meet a friend.’
‘Well,’ George said, ‘provided you take Justin with you …’
Oh shit.
But the sheer audacity of living together … it was the romantic stuff of story books. And it was a great adventure setting out in the predawn into the land of the Xhosa, something like his great great grandfather Ernest had done into the land of the Zulus. As they rode through the rolling green hills with their Xhosa kraals, through their scattered herds of cattle, Luke could almost feel the shades of his forebear riding with him – and his heart and loins were as deliriously tumultuous as Ernest’s had been over his Sarie. But this adventure required him to take Justin into his confidence.
He said soberly in Xhosa: ‘Justin, I must trust you with a secret. You know the white woman, Rousseau, my history teacher?’
‘I know her,’ Justin said.
Luke cleared his throat. ‘Well, she is going to drive down to the sea tomorrow to be with us.’
‘I know,’ Justin said.
Luke frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘I know,’ Justin grinned, ‘because every night you climb out of your window and run to her house. Like this …’ He placed his elbow in his groin and thrust his forearm up rigidly.
‘So you are a spy!’
Justin smiled, ‘No, I only study till late, at my window.’
‘And how do you know I go to her house?’
‘Because we must ride past her house every Friday. And because when she comes to your house to work your tail wags like a dog. Like this … ’ He put his elbow in his groin again; and shook it about. He burst into laughter.
Luke grinned sheepishly. ‘She is only teaching me history!’
Justin dropped his head and laughed: ‘I know …’
‘And she is only coming to the sea to teach me more history!’
Justin threw back his head and guffawed, white teeth flashing: ‘1 know …’
‘Do you understand that?!’ Luke grinned. ‘And my parents must know nothing about this.’
Justin wiped his eyes. ‘I understand everything …’
They rode on in suppressed giggles for a moment, then Justin burst into laughter again. ‘But tell me, Nkosaan – is history nice?’
‘Ooooh …’
It was a wonderful week. Floating in the blue lagoon with Lisa, romping in the crashing surf, walking along the deserted beaches, sleeping all night together: not once did Luke go fishing – that was Justin’s job, to keep him out of the way. Who would want to fish when he could be with the divine Lisa Rousseau? He could not get enough of her. But the divine Lisa Rousseau did also get some brain-work out of him.
‘Luke, always think of history as a series of lampposts, which you can see leading up long networks of roads to the present. The greatest value of history is that our knowledge of the past, particularly past mistakes, helps us see into the future, and hopefully avoid mistakes …’
And she said: ‘As Ernest says, the Battle of Blood River wasn’t a battle, Luke, it was an execution – though don’t say so in your exam paper. But what’s the significance of that lamppost?’
Luke said: ‘It’s an emotional rallying point for the Afrikaner every year when they celebrate the Day of the Covenant. He is reminded every year that God was on his side, and therefore still is. And therefore apartheid is right, God’s will.’
‘Yes. But the real significance, the real tragedy is that a theocracy was born at the Battle of Blood River, Luke. “Rule of God.” Through our “divinely inspired” politicians like Verwoerd. That’s the mentality we’re up against. And we won’t get rid of apartheid until a new generation comes along who doesn’t believe that nonsense.’
‘Or until there’s an uprising. A bloodbath, like Kenya.’
Lisa shook her head. ‘No, that’s another myth. There may be a bloodbath, but it will be black blood that’s spilt, Luke. Like at the Battle of Blood River – an execution. History repeating itself. This government is surrounding us with a ring of steel – but tanks now, not wagons. An uprising will be crushed ruthlessly – it’ll solve nothing.’
‘But the communists? Russia’s got plenty of tanks too.’
Lisa sighed. ‘Communists? That’s just about everybody who opposes this government, according to our Suppression of Communism Act. As for the Russians coming, that’s another bit of wishful black thinking. As happened during the Great Cattle Killing. Sure, Russia’s bent on world revolution, and sure she’ll train saboteurs and black freedom fighters, but Russia’s a hell of a long way away, it’ll be many many years before her tanks get down here. No, the change in this country must come from here –’ she tapped her head – ‘from within. From people like you and me, Luke.’
And she said: ‘Okay, the Boer War. Big lamppost What light does it shed on today?’ Oh fuck the Boer War – he wanted to get laid again. He trailed his hand over the beautiful mound of her buttocks. ‘No, Luke, I’m determined you’ll get more out of me than the facts of life.’
Luke brought his mind back to the question. ‘This government is still fighting the Boer War, figuratively speaking.’
‘Yes. But why? The Boer War was over fifty years ago.’
‘Because of their bitterness. The injustice. The scorched earth, their women and children dying in the camps. So, now that the Afrikaner is on top at last, he intends to stay there at all costs. Hence his ring of steel. His steel laager of apartheid.’
‘True. But apartheid is only directed against the blacks, the Swart Gevaar. You’ve just said the Afrikaner is still fighting the Boer War – and blacks weren’t in that war except as labourers. So, who – and what – is the Afrikaner still fighting?’
‘The English-speaking South Africans?’
‘Right. And why? Because the English still dominate this country economically – because of the Boer War. So how is the government fighting that Boer War problem?’
‘By packing the civil service with Afrikaners?’
‘Right. Affirmative Action, it’s called. To give Afrikaners jobs and have every aspect of government dominated by loyalists. And every aspect of business. And who is the mastermind behind all that?’
‘God?’ Luke grinned.
She flicked his arm. ‘But who in fact?’
‘The Dutch Reformed Church?’
‘But the church only dominates the government’s thinking, its soul. Who is the physical power behind the throne of government?’
‘The Broederbond,’ Luke said. ‘The Brotherhood.’
‘Right … Lampposts, Luke. Illumination. And what do we know about the Broederbond? Very little, because it’s a secret society. But what light does the Boer War shed on it? Ah, now we can start making some intelligent deductions. The Broederbond was founded after the Boer War – after Sir Alfred Milner had made his cock-up of trying to turn us into Englishmen. It was founded to fight for Afrikaner dominance. In all walks of life: the Dutch Reformed Church, business, parliament, the civil service, the army, police, judiciary. And it’s grown into a mighty octopus that now controls the whole country – it’s an Afrikaner mafia now, Luke. And it is really they who rule the country – and they will stop at nothing to stay in power. And there’ll be no reform until their power is broken.’
‘And how do we do that?’
‘How, indeed? Only by the pen, my friend, because they’ve got all the swords – all the generals are Broederbonders. But what does history teach us about Power? “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Eventually they’ll corrupt themselves out of power. Become decadent.’ Then she rolled over onto her back and gave her creamy smile. ‘And now, about that decadent suggestion of yours …’
It was a wonderful time. And when the holidays were over and they went back to Umtata and the kids came pouring back to town it got even better: for now their secret was multiplied, a secret to blow a thousand tiny minds, the danger a delicious spice to the delicious forbidden fruit. Luke Mahoney walked to school feeling ten feet tall, a smile in his heart about seeing her surrounded by her bevy of adoring girls, seeing the other boys lusting after her, hearing their lecherous talk, exchanging delicious grins with her, standing in assembly looking at her up there on the staff platform, eyes locked on each other’s, suppressing a grin, his heart bursting with joyous pride – his gorgeous Miss Rousseau, acting history teacher at Umtata High School, centre of the universe… And when she came striding into the classroom in her gym skirt and the muted groan went up from the boys, his bursting heart turned over. And when she began to spin her wonderful tales of history, which he already knew backwards, he just wanted to leap up and applaud, and, oh God, the joy of her legs, her breasts thrusting against her white blouse as she stretched up to write on the blackboard – sometimes, just sometimes, she locked eyes with him for a moment when all heads were down making the notes, and – oh God – the delicious secret.
When the final bell rang and she set off back to the hostel – his hostel – he went to his father’s law office with his heart singing. After dinner he went to bed, waited, listened, then pulled on his tennis shoes and breathlessly clambered out of the window and dashed across town. Then he walked past the tall hedge of the girls’ hostel, heart knocking, eyes peeled, trying to look like a schoolboy going from God knows where. The towel hanging out her window, the all-clear sign … Then the heart-knocking business of creeping through the hole in the hedge, followed by the dash across the garden to the drainpipe. He crouched in the nasturtiums, seized the pipe and Went shinning up it desperately, hand over hand, every moment expecting a girlish cry from one of the dormitory windows. Then there was the sill and he swung his leg up and Lisa grabbed his ankle, giggling. He heaved himself over, and fell into her arms. And, oh God, the forbidden fruit was all the more delicious for the outrageous danger.
And so it went. Until the night the drainpipe broke away from the wall. He was about to grab the sill when there was suddenly this creaking sound, and he was clawing at the bricks; then slowly the pipe began to fall away from the wall like a felled tree. Luke Mahoney swooped slowly down through the night, wild-eyed. Oh Christ, how do I talk my way out of this? As he hit the earth with a jarring jolt, his ankle buckled, he crashed onto his side, and the pipe and masonry came crashing down on top of him.
For an instant he lay there, shocked, in agony; then windows were bursting open, lights flashing on, and he scrambled up and tried to run, and he sprawled. He had sprained his ankle. He lay for another instant, clutching his foot, then he was up again and hobbling frantically. ‘Hey!’ girls shouted. ‘Stop! Thief!’ He hobbled flat-out, grimacing, and he sprawled again. He scrambled to his feet once more, but as he reached the gate the hostel door burst open. Girls barrelled out, clutching hockey sticks. Mahoney staggered desperately through the gate, gasping, and the girls burst out. They sprinted after him, yelling, and the first hockey stick got him. He lurched, then another stick whacked his head and he reeled; then another, then another. Under a rain of hockey sticks he crashed into the hedge, his arms curled up over his head, surrounded by gleeful, swiping girls.